Our Photo Album: Chuck & Sarah
by fAteD lOvE
Summary: New update: "0800-CIA-MAN-CATALOGUE". Compiled by Morgan Grimes: Best friend of the Chuckster. Moderated by Ellie Bartowski: You wouldn't want to SEE the original version, no one would've except Chuck and Sarah. Photos supplied -grudgingly- by John Casey.
1. A Slimy Affair

December 18th, 2008.

Paris, France.

---

**Snapshot:  
**

**_(Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ18) _**_P1020511_

**_Dimensions: _**_2816 x 1880_

**_Picture Taken: _**_18.12.08, 3:30 p.m.  
_

Chuck and Sarah sat, facing each other, round table between them, a plate of French delicacies laid out on the surface on a porcelain dish, food untouched on Chuck's side. Faces appeared in the background, and a large, clear window off on Sarah's side. The two are oblivious to the chatter of the noisy -and very overcrowded- cafe.

If one paid attention, they can also see a few fingers peeking over the bottom of the photo, reaching for a slimy, abandoned, deshelled member of the mollusc family.

---

It just so happened, that those firm, callused fingers belonged to one John Casey of the United States Air Force, agent of the NSA, and currently on assignment in France. Said assignment now leaned very close to one Sarah Walker of the CIA.

Their schedule had not allowed them for much time off for sight seeing. It had been to apprehend a relatively minor drug lord that had decided to moor himself and his million dollar luxury yacht off the coast of Paris, this said 'lord' having suspected, though blurry, ties with cavorting around with Fulcrum, who had dabbled in drug sales for a while for no yet apparent reason.

With all three no worse for wear, except for a cut on Bartowski's leg that Agent Walker had fussed over and demanded to have seen by medically registered personnel- they, (meaning Sarah and Chuck), had decided to go out for a few hours. Casey, who knew leaving the kids to themselves would end up a disaster, had grudgingly followed, swearing he would get compensation for his troubles.

The prime opportunity happened only one hour into their meandering, two kilometers from their hotel.

They sat themselves on plump armchairs in the corner of the cafe, clear view of the door, of course, although the two younger of the three would not have noticed if Osama Bin Laden himself had waltzed in, as absorbed in each other as they were.

John Casey had forgotten how sickeningly candy sweet, and teeth-rotting young love was. It was not an adult's kind of mature, passionate, subtle kind: it was swooningly, very obvious, cheesy infatuation.

He had bravely held his ground (for the greater good and for America, he kept on repeating to himself), as his charge and his partner had flirted all the way from Los Angeles to half way across the world. The sexual tension between them was electric, and it made him want to shoot both of them.

The way Walker instigated things, then darted back into her CIA hardass, job-focused facade was no help either, leaving Bartowski looking very like a lost puppy, usually downfallen, and difficult to coerce into cooperating.

They had changed from ignoring each other, to tiptoeing around the large fluorescent elephant in their conversations, then throwing looks of wistfulness at each other when they thought no one was looking, to touchy feely, anger, and to a whole lot of other emotions in barely a week that an exasperated Casey was fit to force and deadbolt them into a small cupboard together after slipping some Viagra, (he was sure that was the cause of Bartowski's aversion to Walker a couple of days ago), and some nice NSA issued tablets that made a person's actions rasher (and more truthful), into Walker.

For some reason, to his relief, and strong misgiving, they had been fine today, perhaps after a small talk that Walker insisted on that cemented them as friends with benefits; just friends; just friends but we-both-know-we're-lying; real couple under fake couple parade; real couple-but-don't-tell-John; or real couple and let's-expose-it-to-the-world.

He had been flipping through pamphlets that he had picked up on France, bored out of his mind after having finished fiddling with the camera he had brought, half wondering if Isla was currently in this country at the moment, and half tempted to find out.

Glancing up casually for a split second, noting the same fact that he had noticed for over an hour sitting in his seat, that he had seemingly and very obviously become a third wheel (or even an overprotective father determined to sit between two young lovers just in case: people didn't know how true that fact was, on many different levels).

The conversation was light, and happy, but the look of intensity interlocked between the two pairs of unblinking eyes, was anything but.

As Walker laughed, her expression clearly enjoying the atmosphere and pleased with one half of her present company, Casey covertly followed the movement of Bartowski's hand with a cocked eyebrow as it placed itself on her knee under the table. He was suddenly very uncomfortable, and scraped his chair back an inch.

It was plaintive that Sarah was uncomfortable too -in a whole different way- as she tentatively smiled after her large beam had fallen away. It looked like the culmination of this whole year, the times they would have kissed and gone further if they had been a real couple; even Chuck's expression was serious. How did the two of them change moods so quickly, and fall into these intense and deeply intimate moments? Casey wondered.

She reached down, and for a long moment, her fingers hovered undecidedly over his, but then made her decision, entwining her slender digits with his, and clasping his hand tightly with her own.

Chuck's eyes took on a vulnerable glow, putting his heart forward to be rejected again. Walker had leaned forward, seeming had enough of all their cat and mouse playing. Casey had steeled himself, jamming his eyes closed, spine wooden, grimace on his averted face.

A few minutes later, when he deemed it should be safe, he cracked open one eye, to be met with a stomach turning amount of tongue. He swallowed the bile that burned his throat, and tried not to retch.

Walker's hand was all over and into his hair, his curls wound tightly through her fingers, her other hand on his chest, playing with the top button, as if undecided or not whether to rip it off in the middle of the public.

Bartowski almost had her lying chest down on the table, as his hand pulled them both from their seats and half collapsed onto the food, his own hands on her hips and alternating between cupping her jaw and caressing a spot very high on her side, the thumb on that hand rubbing circles suspiciously close to her breast.

Both were pointedly ignoring the gaping patrons (one mother clapping her hand over her child's eyes, her own staring in disbelief at the couple) around them, staring at their very visual display. After all- wasn't this where the French kiss originated from? As much as he knew their relationship was very against the rules, and trouble for him- it was a relief compared to their usual changing moods that he described as 'Auckland's four bloody seasons in one day'.

A Cheshire grin stretched itself over Casey's face, making him look rather frightening, and maniacal. His eyes calmly surveyed the situation directly in front of him with detachment; following the two as their fused mouths that couldn't separate from each other for less than a millisecond before fervently looking for more, gradually progressed into hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

His hand was almost at the tray under the other two-thirds of his team. Walker was too engrossed in Bartowski, barely caring if Casey wanted to eat, and was blind to his actions as he drew the item carefully into his fingers.

Chuck's eyes were blissfully closed, reveling in the taste of Sarah's soft lips, teasing and caressing that he hardly noticed Casey's actions.

Sarah Walker, top international spy, finally did of course, although at the last moment, a tribute to her skill as she had been distracted by a man she had very deep rooted, and very dangerous feelings for.

And with perfect timing of a born, raised, and trained agent, Casey patiently waited for the next time their mouths drew away, then swiftly slipped his evil intention into his asset's mouth, just as said asset expected the entrance of a CIA agent's tongue, and instead sucked in the creature eagerly.

Sarah had reluctantly drawn away a second before -and for good reason- as she realised what had happened, but not having enough time to recover from her dazed state to warn her companion.

For a moment, Chuck Bartowski was suspended in confusion, wondering why a piece of warm womanly tongue had been cut off from the woman herself, and resided in his mouth. Wondered why it was cold, and tasted faintly of sour lemon. His furrowed eyes snapped open to see John Casey in a fit, a worried Sarah Walker, and a snail missing from his plate, the shell lying innocently on it's side.

-Then all hell broke loose.

---

**Snapshot:**

_P1020512_

Shot taken off center, the owner evidently has dropped the expensive piece of surveillance equipment (that- he insisted to a not so amused Chuck Bartowski- to a better use, after the whole fiasco) while guffawing uncontrollably, and it had flashed as it hit the ground at an angle.

The main objective was currently holding his throat as he tried not to throw up, which would be eternally shaming in a fancy, overseas eating place. His face was plastered over with a look of disgust and complete revulsion, tongue poked out, eyes bulging, spluttering and coughing as he choked on the flavour, and thought of what he had just consumed.

His companion, a blond woman, cobalt eyes watery with laughter and mirth, lips stretched in a wide grin, held her stomach that ached from multiple unstoppable convulsions from the hilariousness of it all.

The owner or operator of the camera, on edge of the photo, was clutching his head, worried it would explode with all the pent up endorphins that had accumulated over the years pounding through his entire body.

Worried customers of the shop peering anxiously, and slightly terrified with the obviously American tourists. The restaurant owner in the back of photo looking rather annoyed by his food's reception by the ignorance of the three.

---

Let it be noted that paybacks were hell, even after a fakely repentant Casey presented the two with three photos (two aforementioned, and the third, a shot of them kissing that Casey's good heart -however dusty- had decided they would want as a memento, all double and triple printed as a precaution to any more destructive actions from Walker) to the two,

-as that night with Walker and Bartowski cooped up in their own room to protect their cover (and also joined by Angst, a year's worth of Longing, Affection, Lust, and Love, not to mention their perverted was-to-be makeout session that afternoon), melted Casey's surveillance equipment, headphones, and a large chunk of the rational part of his brain, by very vocal means.

* * *

  
Wow, this is insane. And very random.

If you haven't read my previous fic, 'Pictures of Us', this is kind of a follow on, although not necessarily in that time line, or part of that plot.

Here's my disclaimer, since putting a A/N at the top would kill everything: I don't own Chuck, but I own a rather frightening amount of pictures of him on my computer...

Thank you to my reviewers for my story (see above), I wasn't expecting such a large and enthusiastic reception for it.

Especially thanks to Axistech for the idea. Instead of doing it in a multichapter, I'm just going to do the 'day-trips to various places' which had no reference to one another. Later on when I have enough snapshots, I may put them in order to faintly resemble a 'photo album'.

Dreamwalker: I'm currently musing over your idea, so expect something soon...possibly, maybe...

Um, for the link, for those who asked about it, turned out to be pretty legit, except when I tried to play it, apparently I had some kind of codec missing...and I think I got a virus from it, which screwed my computer up, so I won't be trying the rest of the sites anytime soon.

Even though I'm not American: woooo Barack Obama won!! It was rather obvious that he would though, Palin and McCain are nutjobs of the worst kind.

P.s. Did anyone notice the reference to Auckland weather and actually understood it?


	2. 0800 CIA MAN CATALOGUE

* * *

**_"0800-CIA-MAN-CATALOGUE"_**

* * *

August 12th, 2008.

Los Angeles, United States of America.

---

**Snapshot:**

**_(Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ18)_**_ P1020359_**_  
_**

_**Dimensions:** 2816 x 1880_

_**Picture Taken:**_ _12.08.08, 1:00 p.m.  
_

Chuck is, looking for once, tall, handsome, dapper. Black aviators, hair gelled down, casual charcoal Armani suit with open necked shirt, polished shoes, and grinning _very_ stupidly for a man about to meet his impending doom.

Our beloved intersect is standing in front of a crystal clear pool at some private Mediterranean mansion of some sort, palm trees in the background along with a not-so-happy Sarah Walker looking very pissed off -or crazed-, her hands wrapped around her trusty pistol.

There are wary looks from the scantily women crowded closely around Chuck himself, each reaching for their own holsters hidden somewhere behind the little patches of fabric on their bodies.

---

"Next."

The slideshow switched again, dissolving from a good looking dark haired man to a blond, she squinted against the brightness of the projector image that contrasted painfully against the dark room.

The woman propped her chin upon her palm, obviously bored, her posture slumped over in one of the theatre armchairs.

"Ugh," She said to the picture showing a man with a walrus mustache and small squinty eyes, "Hell no. He's definitely not an undercover operative; he's too ugly to be effective."

She watched in contemplative silence as several more pictures jumped across. Suddenly, she sat up.

"Wait." She casted a glance back to the man operating the computer, "Go back."

He pressed the rewind, finger hovering over the pause button.

"Stop."

She grinned at the screen, her eyes tracing the adorable curves of this man's face. "This one. He's cute. Is he available?"

The man checked his notes. "Yes, ma'am."

Cocking her eyebrow, she studied his features in more detail: innocent, disarming, not classically handsome but good looking in his own right ... perfect for her assignment, no suspicion would be aroused- but that was the only thing that wouldn't be.

"Whole body picture," She added, "And stats."

The profile snapped to the side, and another shot squeezed into next to it. "#207"

_Age_: 26 years

_Gender_: Male

_Weight_: 80 kgs

_Height_: 6' 2" (188m)

_Eyes_: Hazel

_Hair_: Brown, curly

_Field experience_: xxx

_Clearance level/agent type_:xxx

_Status_: Available

*note: (x) Top Secret, ask for file

"He looks fit enough," She mused, looking appreciatively at his tall, broad torso in a tailored tux, "Are you sure he's been cleared though? He looks a little green."

The man shrugged, "That's not my business. Ask the Director when you request for 207's services."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Fine. What's his name?" She asked, indicating the image as she stood up, ready to visit her superior.

"Chuck Bartowski."

--

Chuck Bartowski once had a mojo and a fairly healthy level of self esteem. BSW (or Before Sarah Walker), he had a dead end job, no girlfriend to speak about, and plenty of time on his hands. The era ASW (After Sarah Walker), he still had a dead end job, a fake girlfriend to speak about, and no time on his hands. Because instead of 'no time', our boy Chuck had his hands full of 'sexy ass'.

'Whose sexy ass?' -Might you ask.

Well, a bit of many flavours. The CIA certainly had variety.

It had all started with Emily. Emily Williams. Gorgeous beyond belief, petite, girly, brunette, and owning a personality deeper than one might suspect, as Chuck finds out later on.

Emily Williams, who by glorious divine intervention, somehow decides to ask for _his_ help out of all available men at the CIA. Emily, who after spending time with him, flirting, and generally seducing him- discovers with surprise that he is a very genuine character who's just shy at first. After that breakthrough, she unleashes her natural bubbly side, and astonishingly enough, they form a tight friendship -as tight as the espionage world permits anyway.

Emily: who declares confidently the first time she sees him, that he's '_so adorable_'; who comes right up to him, blatantly ignoring the strangely bristling Sarah, and runs her fingers over his chest and into his mop of untamed hair.

Emily, who he shares a mission with, and also shares a luxury hotel room for one night while he acts as her significant other at a rich party they are infiltrating. He doesn't even have to do anything: cuddle up, act the perfect gentleman, secure their cover relationship, imbibe free cocktails, dress himself smartly in a free tux, and dance with her… -he likes this, nothing hardly difficult- a carefree night out mingling with international terrorists while his partner takes care of everything.

Emily, who drives him home in her hot orange Lamborghini after their last night. She had offered to take him back; they reached an understanding a while ago, doesn't bother coming onto him anymore, knowing he wouldn't participate in a one night stand.

Emily, who smiles gently at him -not that arrogant pout that he realises is her facade that he had seen the first time he met her, far from it- and when they part, entrusts him with her number, kisses him on the cheek, tells him he's done well, thanks him, and Chuck realizes he's gained a new friend. She gives him a last hug, and leaves before Sarah, who waited up for him, reaches them.

And Emily ... who introduces and endorses his profile by recommending him to other solo operatives who need a temporary cover for a short while.

--

Chuck's contacted only a few days after that by another woman by the name of Michelle Wong, that he unconsciously files next to Emily in his 'hot and hotter' folder in his expansive brain. She reminds him eerily of the actress, Maggie Q, and grins to himself with the thought that spies would make great actors and actresses if they chose to pursue that career.

She's not as polite in 'contacting' him as Emily had -instead, she kidnaps him roughly on the way to his morning shift at the Buy More. The first thing he sees as he comes to, is warm golden-white sand, and long tanned legs. He's delighted when he finds out that she doesn't intend to torture then kill him, but rather, wants to work with him.

Her speech is perfect but for a tinge of an English accent, and he wonders if she's only part Asian, as she looks exotic in a strange blur between the features of two ethnicities. He likes her quiet, reserved, serious nature, and he also likes -the way he doesn't need to bend his neck to see her face like other women he's encountered.

When he accepts and is briefed on their assignment, and he figures -he can make decisions without Sarah and Casey- she picks up an ice cream for both of them before returning him to a panicked Sarah, and a gruff, annoyed Casey.

And when they part with ecstatic beams, still riding from their adrenaline of a wildly successful mission that's over in the same day as meeting her, in which he plays a more active role of running away as fast as he can -she apologizes for kidnapping him the first time they met. Her hug before she hops onto her flashy Kawasaki (that she had abandoned and hidden around Casa Bartowski for their ride of the night), has none of the callousness of her touch before.

--

Its a few weeks before he gets any other calls that his superiors actually give the approval to, and Chuck throws himself into his Carmichael persona with a happy laugh, relishing the challenge. He's gotten used to this aspect of CIA life; gate crash parties, and enjoy himself while his partner does their thang. It helps that not one of them would be rejected from modeling for Vogue either.

It's more serious, this time. He's had to stay a week with her, and even though his heart prickles with guilt, he lets her curvy figure snuggle innocently into his chest as they sleep in their wooden shack on a Caribbean coast.

It's not sex, he persuades himself -it's only harmless affection.

He's pretty sure Sarah's violating some sort of mission protocol by ringing up twice unexpectedly during the assignment to talk and checkup on him under the guise of more serious matters. She's stuck in LA while Casey had been cleared to fly out with them undercover since it was a longer mission and significantly more dangerous for the Intersect. Ellie is told that he's gone on a vacation with Sarah, who is then forced to stay well away from the places that his friends and family usually frequent to avoid being spotted.

It's like a paid holiday in the tropical sun, as he and Mary-Kate kayak around the smaller islands, his straining arms glistening with sweat at his exertion, watching the woman leading the way effortlessly in her own boat, gliding serenely on the surface of the water.

She's too reckless for his taste, but he does savour the rush that comes from hanging around her. He's relieved that soon he's able to sway her that some quiet time is enjoyable as well.

Chuck breathes in deeply, glad he's not inhaling the somewhat toxic fumes of the city he's left behind for a few days to go back in time to this wonderful, simplistic living. The night is early, but he can already see the stars, and he admires them openly, nostalgia overwhelming him as he remembers standing under the stars with Sarah back in LA after the world domination fiasco a few months ago. He's acutely aware of the silky, translucent white curtains billowing around his bare feet and with a slightly stronger breath of wind, caresses his naked upper torso while his shorts flap gently.

The days pass as quickly as the suicidal way his compatriot drove their hired convertible Merc around the primitive and few roads. He feels bittersweet about how quick she wraps up the whole business, and she tells him that you get used to changing scenery and scenarios -she's been all over the world. He promises himself silently that one day he'll come back here to stay.

When he finally flies home, with the company of a whole body dark tan, a beautiful blond in a filmy sarong on his arm, he's rather pleased –or maybe a tad too pleased- by the looks he gets from the waiting crowd at LAX, he knows they look good together: him with his black tank top, and muscles that are starting to define due to their extracurricular activities necessary to obtain information.

--

Chuck is thoroughly entertained by his third side job as a CIA ladies' companion. It takes his mind briefly off the recent bout of rockiness between him and Sarah … not to mention he gets paid for it as well.

Casey is just plain stumped as to why his asset's so popular all of a sudden, getting chosen over more socially-accepted type of attractive men like Bryce Larkin.

To his relief, Sarah isn't exhibiting any extreme cases of negative behaviour, or rejecting his new job except for her pursued lips whenever he's supposed to goes out. Chuck thinks it's a good thing. Less contact is better for his sanity.

His superiors are grudgingly surprised by his effectiveness –and reputation around the facility. His glowing reports from their agents are ignored though, and he's treated as badly as ever. He doesn't mind, he jokingly thinks to himself that there are probably more allegiances to him than to them now.

What he doesn't know is that the brass thinks so too, and it was probably true.

--

He's actually amazed after a few more weeks on the job at the sheer number of solo CIA women who need a male cohort. The amount of priorities and long list requesting him don't cease at all. It seems once a few of the top spies come to him, the rest follow like pecking chickens.

Chuck wonders why they –those he works with- tell him they're single, and he suspects, it's more than just those he's come into contact with that are unattached. They are all beautiful, and once he manages to pry open their defenses, their soul comes spilling out to him with the crumbling pieces. Some tell him they have fake boyfriends and divorced husbands, a large part of their significant others have died (they don't say _how_, but for a few of them, he can guess), and a lot, it seems, just don't have time in their busy schedules for a long term relationship.

He thinks it's a waste of their beauty, brains, their uniqueness, and they _do_ –they do have their individuality, he realizes, under their professionalism- but there's no one to value it. He asks gingerly if they mind this lonely life. Some nod with sad smiles, and some just try to change the subject but he can feel their pain palpably, some just shrug; they've been on their own so long they've forgotten how it feels like to love and be loved.

Chuck's heart nearly explodes and wilts hearing their confessions, and he wants to cry for those of them that just can't. He frowns at the way they're broken –he can't even envision, just doesn't comprehend what he'd do without Ellie, and Morgan, and his close relationships- and the way they just don't know any better than what they've got or what's out there, doesn't know how special they are –and wishes he had enough love to share around with each and every one of them.

It brings Sarah into perspective, and he views her now in a whole new light. Now he can see how much struggle she's gone through with him to get to where she was now, how much she'd changed from that CIA female mold.

Suddenly, he realises, by the overwhelming tide of emotion that arises in him when he comes to that epiphany of his handler -how much she's gone through, and he appreciates her just that much more.

--

He's hurt this time around, not a minor stab wound, but full on, been-though-shit-and-back injuries that get him promptly and urgently taken to the nearest hospital. Maybe it was accidental, or just unplanned, but he had a sinking feeling that he was at fault for letting himself get slack after getting comfortable after so many excursions.

He doesn't remember much, but the bits he _does_ remember are hard to forget; like how flustered Sarah looked through his bleary eyes as she rushed through the ER after him, still clutching her machine gun and covered in his blood (to the horror of nurses, doctors and civilians alike). How surprisingly upset her expression was as she spotted his partner, Tamara Knight. How she marched up to her with an indescribable feeling in her furious eyes as she gripped her arm like a vice without warning and muttered words that made the other woman pale.

Tamara is his type of girl; though pretty, she's gracious to everyone she meets. She's got a hint of auburn in her hair, and her loyalty once gained, she's a cracker to be with. She's hilariously funny, even when the jokes aren't always appropriate, she eases up the tension of a mission by the emission of the worst timed one-liners in the midst of violent tendencies.

He hopes Sarah won't hurt his new friend too much, but he's not exactly in a position to do anything right at that particular moment.

Their operation had been going so smoothly, until another couple got singled out as the undercover ops even though Chuck was convinced they were there just for the black market sale. It shouldn't even had happened, but he had got caught in the firefight when they had been trying to sneak away, hit several times by stray bullets, one in a critical area, then lost Tamara in the fleeing crush around him, imprisoned with the innocent in the basement, tortured and beaten like the other two, and barely escaped with his life when the SWAT team arrived.

Of all the women so far, the laid back Tamara strikes him as the most experienced, and apt at her job. But when he wakes up, she's by his side, and he can see she feels responsible for not protecting him more.

They laugh over their better times, since this had been their second assignment together. It was supposed to take three and a half days max, but his abduction extended the length nearly double. Still, the freedom he felt as he was airlifted out was nothing to be compared with the exhilaration that coursed through his veins as a heavily armed Sarah had grasped his hand in the chopper, sparing no glance at the other occupants and didn't let go until they pulled her away.

"I got into trouble with the girls. Seems they're pretty worried about you. Harpies, the lot of them I say."

Tamara points to the table set against the wall in the far corner of the room, and he grins at the amount of get well cards stacked precariously all over it, the amount of flowers so overwhelming that the nurses had been forced to place some of them in buckets on the floor.

A single bunch of white gardenias catches his eye, the meaning doesn't elude him, and he's sure they're from a certain CIA handler of his who was confined to her house yesterday after spending continuous days and nights at his unconscious side.

Somehow all the outpour of support for him makes him feel a lot better already.

--

Chuck is blissfully asleep in his hospital bed, and even though he's been there for longer than he would have liked -at Ellie's insistence- he's getting discharged tomorrow.

There's a loud -very loud, smattering of chatter that rouses him. He blinks, he can't see anything as it's an unholy hour of the night. His eyebrows furrow, the hospital's usually very quiet and calm at these times except for nurses doing their rounds.

"Shhhh!!"

It's a female, he's sure.

He bolts upright, his hospital gown uncomfortably fluttering and exposing more than he would've liked.

The sounds abruptly stop from outside.

His door slides open slightly as he tenses, but manicured fingernails creep their way around the doorframe, and a head pokes in.

"_Chuckles_?" Her voice is hushed, and her omission is faintly breathed, but Chuck hears it clearly because his senses are on high alert.

His reply is incredulous. "Emily??!"

He can see a glint, knows it's her smile.

"What are you doing here?!" He hisses.

"Em!" Another woman's voice calls, "Move! We all want to see him."

There's a loud chorus of murmured agreement.

He pales, "How many of them did you bring?"

It seemed the racket was much too loud, they can hear quick footsteps around the corner.

His CIA ladies bustle and push their way into the room. Someone shuts the door, and they are all absolutely still until they can't hear the person any more.

Chuck glares at them, "Aren't you supposed to be _quiet_? Your occupations are spies for god's sake!"

They grin in response, and he's wide awake now wondering what mischief they're up to this time.

His eyes have adjusted, and he can see womanly outlines of different heights but mostly the same athletic shape. He's horrified to see some decked out in full combat gear instead of the expensive casual the others are wearing. His eyes alight on each face, and he remembers clearly everyone's names, and exchanges brief eye contact with some who he knows better than others.

"Why-"

"Oh, some of us just came from a mission, didn't have time to get changed and look pretty for you. It took ages to round everyone up. Say hi to your brothel of hos!"

"And some of us put it on for precaution. Plus- you know your handlers are much too overprotective, Chuck."

"Um," He fumbles for words, as proud as he was of the enthusiasm of his loyal but misguided friends, he was slightly disturbed by their thought processes.

"It's the middle of the night," He says blankly, shaking his head, "You couldn't have waited a few measly hours until morning when normal, _sane_ people usually pick up the hospital patients during the visiting hours?"

Amber waves her dark skinned hands in the air, "Pft, who said we were _sane_, darling? And besides … normal is overrated.

A new voice cuts in briskly. "Rightio, someone go get his stuff, the rest of you keep a lookout…_and_ _I'll _help you dress."

Chuck narrows his eyes, there was only one woman who had that voice, and would say that to him.

"Carina?!"

A hand appeared on his still tender torso, and slid all the way up to his jaw teasingly.

"_Hi Chucky_."

Chuck shifts backwards, "Thanks, but I'm quite capable of putting my own clothes on."

He stretches his arms out, feeling his back click satisfyingly, glad to finally be able to get out of bed.

The woman all inch back to give him space as he hoists himself up, trying not to move too much as the gown rises on his legs while the women watch him expectantly with evil smirks.

He wants to defend his modestly, really, but most've them have already seen more than they should during their assignments with him. And he consoles himself –it's dim anyway.

Chuck quickly slips on the jeans under the gown that someone hands him, glad he put on his boxers (and not briefs) earlier today because he felt too breezy.

He's aware a few women are efficiently stripping clear all the drawers and room of his personal belongings as if they're searching for bugs. He asks for a shirt and a soft lineny fabric is draped over him after two other pairs of hands lift the gown over his head.

Someone offhandedly comments that they changed his wardrobe and there are whacking noises, a protest and mumbles of disapproval.

"You went into my room? What if Ellie saw you? –or my new clothes!"

Tamara's voice is soothing as she jokes, "She'll probably think you've got a large libido and healthy social life."

There's another titter, and he rolls his eyes.

"Ha ha. Funny. You're _so_ hilarious." He deadpans as he ties his chucks up.

"Aw, don't be like that, Chuck." Janie laughs, pulling him up from the mattress when he's finished, drawing him into a tight, fierce hug and ruffling his hair fondly. "I'm glad you're alright now by the way. We all sent cards…but lots of us couldn't put much on it. It's the thought that counts I guess!"

He gets passed around the room, getting relieved embraces and numerous kisses from each female. He counts at least twenty just from all the contact.

They encounter no opposition as they escape, him and his 'rescuers' –they proclaimed, smuggling him out swiftly and dead silently. He was thankful they were the best professionals that America had to offer –and extra pleased that they were on his side. Perhaps it was because the staff was so intimidated by the guns and deceptively vicious looking females that they didn't encounter any other life forms on the way out.

Even with the lateness of the hour, Chuck feels an indescribable happiness as he sneaks through the hospital with the dark, lethal and very noiseless shadows surrounding him protectively.

This was life at its best.

--

"**Chuck. Bartowski.**"

Chuck's eyes widened to impossible proportions at the voice full of womanly wrath.

There was a huge panicked affair of something akin to ruffling feathers as the women around him and in the pool practically squawked in apprehension. Hands reached for weapons, and they settled into ready stances.

Even the distantly approaching Casey stepped back, cautious but looking positively malevolent at the same time.

"Bartowski, Bartowski, _Bartowski_," He called sweetly, mimicking Big Mike and dragging out his last name with sick delight, "You are a _dead_ man."

Chuck scrambled from his position lying on a sun bed, punch in his hand, and extremely alarmed for his recently acquired health.

"_Cheese_!"

Just before he swiveled completely to face the newcomers, he gave a large Bartowski-patented beam at the camera and Megan behind it- as it flashed quickly.

There was a low growl and he whirled back around.

If Chuck didn't know better, he would have firmly believed he had come face to face with the devil from hell at first glance. (He swore later that horns had begun to emanate from her head, crimson sparkling in the depths of her eyes and an effusion of steam from her pores). Her hands were clenched tight, knuckles white and looking rather itching to reach for the gun at her lower back.

Sarah looked mightily frazzled, and Chuck quailed, hiding behind Mary-Kate. His handlers looked like they had been led on a goose chase –which they probably had.

"This _whole_ time," An irascible-looking Sarah started vacuously, "You were at a _pool party_?!" Her voice was low, and very very angry. The pitch so flat and toneless that her pain and anger were conveyed even without a raised voice.

Chuck laughed nervously, "Sarah! Hi! …I'm sorry? I forgot to invite you …"

He shrunk some more when she took two steps forward, looking about to either break down crying or explode in her aggravation.

"And you didn't _think_ to ring me? While you were half naked in your swimming trunks with these whores all over you, YOU WERE _TOO BUSY_?!"

"Now you-"

"I resen -"

"Hey! -"

"I'm not -"

Chuck smiled at the affronted, slinky dressed women gathered around him. "Come on Sarah, they're my friends! They just wanted to cheer me up with a barbie and swim-"

"SHUT UP!" She screamed, "I AM GOING TO LECTURE, AND YOU ARE GOING TO LISTEN!"

"AND COULD WE GET SOME PRIVACY?!" Sarah snapped at the other women, waving her gun around while most of them didn't budge, hands on their waists, their stances communicating their irritation with their colleague.

Carina grimaced, her hand still hovering over her hidden weapons as she backed away, nodding at the other women who moved reluctantly at her signal.

Sarah gave them the evil eye, clearly not pleased with just the only one step they had taken back, huffed, and took a flinching Chuck by the forearm away to the other side of the pool.

They hadn't even made it halfway before she stared screeching again. "CHUCK, DID YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I WORRIED –FREAKED OUT- ABOUT YOU? You're not fully recovered, and you're out here instead of resting under the care of your sister who's a registered medical personnel!"

He hadn't seen this side of Sarah before: she had been angry, yes, incensed, yes, but not quite as irate as she was now; so much so that she had started shaking.

"You could have at least brought me along to look after you!" She yelled, "Even _Casey_ was close to tears; if we lost you again, our jobs are on the line!"

Chuck stared at her, "So this is about your job."

She calmed down noticeably, "No Chuck, it's not. It's about you, and your blatant disregard for your own life! You've got other people to think about, how it'll affect them."

"My life…"

His two words somehow riled her again, and she roared, completely out of control, "YES, _YOUR_ LIFE, DID YOU KNOW YOU COULD HAVE DIED?_" _She shrieked.

Chuck irrationally thought how pointless it was for Sarah to ask for 'privacy', the way she was yelling at the top of her lungs.

"IF YOU'RE DEAD, I WON'T EVER BE ABLE TO TALK TO YOU! SO IF YOU EVER, _EVER_, ENDANGER YOUR LIFE AGAIN, I WILL BLOODY WELL DIG YOU UP FROM YOUR GRAVE AND SLAP YOU! I'M NEVER LETTING YOU OUT OF MY SI-"

"I love you Sarah."

"-OF MY SIGHT! I'M GONNA BUBBLE WR-" The words slowly sank in.

She seemed to deflate like a cheap soccer ball after a good kick. Her ashen face became even whiter, bordering on transparency. Her eyes bulged, her lungs not re-inflating from her last tirade, what vestiges of air it held wheezed out in a rush.

"_What_?" Her voice was hushed and frightened, as if he were merely an apparition in her mind.

He stepped forward timidly, and placing his hands on the cold skin of her arms, he drew her body against his closely, his feet toe to toe with hers, wrapped her snugly in his embrace and lowered his head to lie on her shoulder, burying his nose into her warm golden hair.

"I love you."

--

When Chuck finally musters up the courage a week later to ask Beckman why he wasn't getting any more calls for help, he gets the answer:

"We changed your status to 'currently busy'. My agents were compromising themselves with you. Did you know Agent Williams practically floated into my office for her next assignment wearing a fluorescent t-shirt with _'peace' _on it after contact with you? I haven't ever seen something as -bright- or unprofessional in my whole career." She sniffed haughtily. "I'm starting to think you're trying to infiltrate and recruit the CIA ranks for your own benefit."

"And- Agent Walker was soon to fall off the deep end. It was...safer for everyone."

* * *

Disclaimer: I _could_ be persuaded to write for new Chuck episodes to air if they realllly insisted...*hint to producers etc* But then Sarah and Chuck would be married by next week's episode.

Hehe this has been the most interesting to write so far of my fics, and definitely my longest one shot to date; it kind of got longer and longer, I couldn't stop writing. Sorry it took so long, stupid didn't save all the edits I made so I had to do it all over again which took an extra few hours and not at the previous standard since I couldn't remember the changes.

Inspiration: CIA women catalogue in season 1 episode 11, and the Palm Springs photo of Roan and his female 'friends'. It's funny (or stupid) that I didn't make those connections till halfway through writing this.

I'm wondering, do you Americans call it a 'barbie' too? I'm aware that it might just be us super cool kiwis and …not so much- Aussies, that say that.

It started off quite light, but I'm glad it got more serious and thoughtful, I needed to start writing non-crack fics anyway and I couldn't resist the sappy bit at the end ;)

I know this fic will do better by itself, but I decided to attempt a multichapter this time, so please don't let me down :) And yes, I'm aware the dates of the events are all screwed up.

Review please? You know you want to...


End file.
